The Guys in the Back Row
by Sgt. Moffitt
Summary: Tales of Hogan's lesser-known Heroes.
1. Thomas

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; this is purely a labor of love._

* * *

I shouldn't have even _been_ there, really. Mom encouraged me to become a conscientious objector; you can be a medic or something, she said. Still help the cause without killing people, she said.

Dad didn't go for that, of course. After Pearl, the only thing that would satisfy him was for me to enlist as a fighting man. Me, I thought maybe the Air Corps was the place to be. At least with them, I wouldn't have to see the people I was killing.

And it worked for a while, actually. I was lucky to be assigned to navigation school; nice clean job, had to learn how to perform calculations and read aviation maps, but that came easily to me. Easy to tell the pilots where to take their payloads of death. Not like I was the bombardier, either. They might not have seen the people they were bombing, but they must have known, somehow, that it wasn't like the bombs could tell what was a munitions factory, and what was a school two blocks away.

But I knew, anyway, deep down inside. Every mission I flew, I realized more and more that death and destruction followed me wherever I went. But I kept on. God only knew how much destruction Germany was raining down on England, on innocent folks just trying to go about their daily lives.

It wasn't like two wrongs made a right, though. It was more like a necessary evil. Everyone knew that Hitler was not going to be appeased, that the only hope for Europe lay in the total and unconditional surrender of the Third Reich. And it was going to take a lot of death and destruction to bring that about.

I knew that, we all did, but it got harder and harder for me to do what I had to do. It was almost a relief when my bomber got shot down and the crew taken prisoner. I'm not sure where the others were taken; me, I wound up at Stalag 13.

What a strange place. Mostly Americans, all airmen, all noncoms like myself, except for the Senior POW Officer. I got assigned to his barracks, and boy, what an eye-opener.

He was a colonel, you see, full colonel with eagles and everything. He was a nice guy, with a lighthearted manner with his men - except when a mission was in progress, he was all business _then_ - and flippancy bordering on insolence when he dealt with the goons there.

The head goon being Colonel Klink, the camp Kommandant. Now, there was a guy who was a conundrum. Strutted around like a peacock half the time, with a swagger stick under his arm. And the arguments he got into with Colonel Hogan! I'm sure the Colonel just egged him on to make the Kommandant look foolish, but Klink just rose to the bait so easily.

But for all of his foolishness and vainglory, I think he was a decent human being at heart. I helped Sergeant Wilson out in the infirmary, and whenever one of the prisoners was sick or injured, the Kommandant always visited and followed up to make sure they were getting better. He would even send a prisoner to the _Krankenhaus_ in Hammelburg if Wilson couldn't deal with the problem at the camp.

The other Krauts in camp, and the ones who visited periodically, were just as much a puzzle to me. There was our beloved Sergeant Schultz, for example. Just a big cuddly teddy bear at times, innocent as a child; other times he could be as sharp as a tack, and you'd better watch your step.

Corporal LeBeau seemed to keep Schultz in line pretty good, though. He called him "Schultzie" and fed him strudel.

Then there was Corporal Langenscheidt. Now, he was a real mystery to me. We didn't see much of him, and he seemed a pleasant enough guy, if a little goofy. But when he and Schultz got assigned the task of guarding the Colonel and LeBeau on a trip to Paris...

What were a couple of POWs from a German Stalag doing in Paris in the middle of World War II? Don't ask me. I leave that kind of question to Colonel Hogan.

Every now and then we'd see a tub of lard by the name of General Burkhalter. Not sure what his role was, since he wore a _Heer _officer uniform, but he seemed to be in charge of Luftwaffe POW camps - at least ours came under his jurisdiction. Klink was always kissing up to him, but Burkhalter just barely tolerated Klink, and for only one reason.

Did I mention that Stalag 13 had never had a successful escape?

The other Kraut we saw the most of was Major Hochstetter, a Gestapo officer. He always seemed mad about something, mostly Colonel Hogan, I guess. Actually, Hochstetter was just a wee bit on the unbalanced side, if you ask me.

The Colonel didn't treat the good Major with a lot of respect. In fact, from what I could see, he was always making a fool out of him.

Take that incident with the underground leaders that were being held in our camp, for example.

That was one of the few times I took active part in an operation outside the wire. Outside the wire? Hey, I said there was never an escape - I didn't say we never left for a while. Anyway, that kind of thing was usually carried out by Colonel Hogan's main team - Sergeants Kinchloe and Carter, and Corporals Newkirk and LeBeau. Me, I was just one of the guys in the back row at roll call.

But this time Sergeant Carter had another special assignment outside the wire, doing one of his German officer impersonations. That guy could look and sound more like a Kraut than the Krauts do. Anyway, Kinch and I were given the task of taking over the radio station in Hammelburg temporarily so Kinch could give a fake broadcast, then we had to disable the station.

Gotta admit that was kind of fun, except for the part where I had to help knock out the station personnel. We didn't cause any permanent damage, though, not to the people working there, just to the station itself. You should have seen the sparks fly.

When we got back to camp, there was a major hoopla about the war being over - that was the gist of Kinch's broadcast, you see. It was kind of sad, really. All of the POWs knew about the ruse, but the guards, Klink, and Hochstetter didn't, and Colonel Hogan was able to talk Hochstetter into letting the underground leaders go, on account of the war being over and all.

It wasn't but a few minutes after the underground leaders left, when the stuff really hit the fan. A Luftwaffe general showed up and let Klink and Hochstetter know they had been tricked. Hochstetter got hauled off by the general, the underground got the blame for the whole hoax, and we at Stalag 13 got off scot-free. Pretty slick, all around.

And I was happy to have been part of the whole scheme. I did some other minor behind the scenes jobs for Colonel Hogan, but I'm really glad that Carter handled all the explosive stuff. I just couldn't deal with the thought of hurting people anymore. Not even to help end the war.

We didn't have a chaplain in camp - weird, isn't it? It was a small stalag, sure, but there were a few hundred men here, and you'd think we would've rated a chaplain. Anyway, I was having trouble dealing with the fact that our camp was harboring a bunch of saboteurs - myself among them, and there really wasn't anyone to talk to about it.

Except Colonel Hogan himself, and I shied away from approaching him. The Colonel always knew what was going on with his men, though, and he took me aside one day.

"It's okay, Thomas - I know something's on your mind. It's my job as your commanding officer to help you work out any problems you may have."

So I told him about my feelings about having to hurt other people. I told him about how Pearl Harbor had derailed my plans to enter the seminary, and how I wished we had a chaplain here in camp.

He nodded. "I'm Irish Catholic myself. Haven't been to Mass in years now."

"I'm Irish, too, Colonel. My mother was a Mulcahy," I told him.

"Well, Sergeant Thomas, I respect your feelings and I do appreciate the work you've done for us. We're still on the same team and working for the same thing. Never doubt that."

He crossed his arms in that way he has and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Thomas, I think there are plenty of noncombatant type activities in camp to keep you busy. I believe the Geneva Convention gives me the right to appoint a chaplain since we don't have one available. Would you care to take on the responsibility?"

"I would be honored, sir," I said.

So I got started by talking to all of the POWs about what they felt they were missing, religion-wise. A surprising number of them wanted to form prayer groups, and I was happy to help them organize these, as well as impromptu church services. Most of the guys, though, just needed somebody to talk to, and thanks to Colonel Hogan, I was able to be there for them.

As the war dragged on, more and more guys needed to talk. Red Cross packages had stopped arriving, food supplies were getting low, and morale was low as well.

Then, in March, Corporal Langenscheidt arrived back in camp with some Red Cross guy, and best of all, they had a truck full of Red Cross packages. I helped unload, and while we were all occupied in passing these out to the POWs and storing the rest, Kinch came running up to me.

"Hey, Thomas, the Colonel wants to see you right away!"

I found the Colonel outside Barracks 2.

"Yes, sir?" I said.

Colonel Hogan smiled at me. "Well, Sergeant Thomas, I think I have another flock for you to tend to. Klink's arranging to parole some prisoners here for work with the Red Cross. They need drivers and mechanics for the relief trucks taking packages to POWs who have been evacuated and are now on the move. I figure you'd want to be among them - am I right?"

Was he ever!

As I sat in the back of the Red Cross truck with the rest of the guys, we waved goodbye to the Colonel and the rest of the POWs. They waved back, and even Klink and some of the guards waved too.

It was a bumpy ride, but I knew I was headed in the right direction. I know that there will always be war, and there will always be soldiers, and I guess those soldiers will always need guys like me.


	2. Wilson

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this - it is truly a labor of love._

Remember when Colonel Klink was sick with the flu and Kinch said the camp medic was in the hospital with the same malady? Ever wonder what kind of experience Wilson had there?

Many thanks to Lizzi0307 for correcting my German!

* * *

The infirmary had never been so busy. The influenza epidemic had somehow spread from Hammelburg to Stalag 13, and the prisoners had been easy prey for the infection.

Those who could remember the deadly pandemic of 1918-1919 were understandably fearful of the outcome, but fortunately this was a milder form. Not hemorrhagic; just fever, cough, and debilitating weakness that passed within a week or so with most. For those unfortunate enough to develop pneumonia, though, the outlook was not so good.

Not surprisingly, Sergeant Scott Wilson joined the ranks of the sufferers eventually. He had been working night and day, tending to the sick prisoners, and although he did his best to keep up his own strength, one day it hit him.

Sergeants Kinchloe and Thomas found the medic collapsed on the floor of the infirmary. They discovered he was burning up with fever, and delirious. They quickly gathered him up from the floor and got him into a cot.

...

"Scotty..."

As if in a dream, the voice was haunting Wilson. He struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids were simply too heavy.

"This man is very sick, Sergeant Kinchloe."

"I know, Kommandant. That's why I asked to have you see him."

"I will arrange for him to be transported to the hospital in Hammelburg. And the other ones?"

"The rest seem to be doing better, Kommandant."

"Good. You will inform Colonel Hogan of the transfer, Sergeant Kinchloe."

"Yes, sir."

...

Fevered dreams had their way with poor Wilson for a long time, dreams of a time past and a time present...

It was the war to end all wars, with disease killing as many as the bullets did. He was a young private with Pershing's army in France, spurred on to enlisting by the patriotic strains of George M. Cohan's "Over There". He was fortunate in that during his few months abroad he avoided injury, but the sickening sights, sounds, and smells of trench warfare made him resolve that he would never go to war again.

The Armistice had been signed but he had not yet been shipped back to the States when his wife, shortly after giving birth to their son Joey, succumbed to the dreaded influenza. Within hours she was gone, leaving a squalling infant to care for.

Wilson returned home to find his son in the care of the child's heartbroken grandmother. Although he was numb with grief, he made up his mind to raise their son the way Carrie had wanted him to be raised. With the help of his parents and his mother-in-law, Wilson took Joey with him to Ann Arbor and managed to finish his course at the University of Michigan with a degree in biology.

He was proud of his achievement, but the sweetest moment at the commencement ceremony was when three-year-old Joey ran to him and Wilson swung him up in his arms.

His parents wanted him to go on to medical school, but Wilson was determined to start earning a living for himself and his son. He moved back home to a little town on the shore of Lake Michigan and got a job as a teacher in the local high school.

With a wistful look back on the career as a doctor that he had given up, he decided to learn as much as he could regarding all things medical, and trained to become a volunteer ambulance driver as well.

Little Joey flourished in the small town, secure in the love of his father and grandparents, and grew up to be a young man they were all proud of. After he graduated from high school, Wilson sent him to his old alma mater, and eagerly awaited letters from Ann Arbor every week.

And then Hitler invaded Poland.

Wilson was stunned to receive a letter from Joey that explained that he had enlisted with the United States Army Air Corps, and was determined to become a pilot. For a long time after he received the letter, Wilson sat with his head in his hands. Visions of the Great War came to him, and he shuddered. His son, his only son, was to go to war? It was every parent's nightmare, and it was only now that Wilson realized what his own parents, and Carrie, had gone through in 1918 when he had enlisted as an idealistic twenty-year-old.

But at least Joey wasn't leaving a pregnant wife behind.

In the months following, Wilson was afflicted by a restlessness he had never known before. His mother and father had passed on a few years before, and he was alone in the world, except for his boy who was currently risking his neck in Burma, training with Claire Chennault's Flying Tigers.

In 1941, feeling the need to join Joey, if only in spirit and a shared purpose, Scott Wilson enlisted with the United States Army Air Corps and quickly attained the rank of sergeant. By 1942, with the US officially in the war, he found himself with the Eighth Air Force in England, flying daylight missions over Germany in a B-17, acting as waist gunner. One of his jobs as waist gunner was to tend to the wounded in the aft portion of the plane, and he thought wryly that his experience as an ambulance driver was being put to good use.

Eventually, Wilson's luck ran out and his Flying Fortress was shot down over Schweinfurt. He escaped injury but was quickly picked up by the local constabulary and shipped directly to a Luft Stalag not far away. He didn't realize at the time that he was fortunate not to have gone to a transit camp, but perhaps the fact that those who captured him referred to him dismissively as _"der alte Mann" _spared him that experience.

At any rate, he ended up at Stalag 13, part of a motley crew, international in scope, and multigenerational in age. He himself was one of the oldest POWs there, and found it amusing that his fellow prisoners, many of them younger even than Joey, tended to call him "Scotty" rather than "Sergeant" or even "Wilson".

Colonel Robert Hogan, the Senior POW Officer, was quick to sum up all new arrivals and had Wilson appointed as their acting medic the first week he arrived. Colonel Klink, the Kommandant, was agreeable to this, and Wilson, struck once more by the irony of the whole situation, wondered if his parents' ambitions of him becoming a doctor were to be fulfilled by his role at the POW camp.

His duties as medic had not been too arduous; other than attending to minor illnesses and injuries, splinting broken bones and suturing lacerations and such, he had not encountered anything serious. He concentrated his energies on keeping the POWs as well nourished and as healthy as possible, paying attention to infection control and sanitation. He also earned a name for himself as "the petty theft man", referring to his skill in scrounging medical supplies.

The influenza epidemic had been the first real challenge, and unfortunately he had no remedy for influenza, even if he had had access to all the drugs available in Germany. Keep 'em hydrated, and their lungs clear, and attend to their comfort; that was pretty much all anyone could do...

...

"_Sie müssen trinken." _A gentle voice roused Wilson from his dreams and he opened his eyes.

A little old lady, with pink cheeks, blue eyes, and white hair, was holding a cup to his lips.

Wilson struggled to lift his head, but he managed to take a few sips before dropping back to the pillow. A pillow? Pillows were an unknown commodity at Stalag 13, at least in the prisoners' barracks. He allowed his gaze to travel from the kindly woman seated at his bedside, to the other beds in the large, high-ceilinged room.

A hospital ward, apparently. Then he turned his head as another voice was heard, speaking very softly.

"_Was macht dieser Mann eigentlich hier?_"

"_Die Grippe, Herr Major."_

A man was now standing next to the little old lady seated at his bedside. He had a stocky build, narrow dark eyes, a narrow dark mustache, and was dressed in a black Gestapo uniform.

At this point, Wilson didn't have the strength to care, but he recognized his second visitor as Major Wolfgang Hochstetter. Wilson had no idea why Colonel Hogan's nemesis was visiting him in the hospital, but he raised one hand weakly in greeting.

"Howdy," he said.

The Major's mustache twitched, but he said, in heavily accented English,"You are from Stalag 13, no? Then you will know it is your duty to get better so you no longer occupy a bed in the _Krankenhaus,_ a bed needed by loyal Germans. Listen to the _gnädige Frau_, _ja?"_

With that, he spoke a few more words in German to the little old lady, patted her on the shoulder, and took his leave.

Wilson watched him go, but wondered how he was to listen to the lady when he didn't speak German, and she apparently didn't speak English. Regardless, when she put the cup to his lips, he obediently drank, and just as obediently allowed her to sponge his face.

Later, he watched in puzzlement as she pantomined coughing and turning from side to side, then indicated he should do the same. It took a few moments before he caught her drift.

_Of course...she wants me to move around and cough, to keep my lungs clear. Just like I made the guys do back in the infirmary. How quickly I forget._

He was so incredibly weak, it was an effort just to roll to his side, but the good lady assisted him, and gave him a handkerchief to cough into. She then made him drink some more before she prepared to leave.

Wilson looked up at her, not knowing why she had been so kind. "_Danke," _he said, pretty much exhausting his knowledge of German.

She smiled at him. "_Bitte sehr."_

_..._

Wilson recognized that visit as the turning point in his illness. The staff at the hospital were kind enough, but terribly overworked, and a middle-aged POW was not a high priority to them. The ward was crowded with flu sufferers of all ages and both sexes, and Wilson realized somewhat guiltily that he was just an added burden to them.

As soon as he was able to sit up, he managed to get himself out of bed and go to others in the ward, helping them to drink and caring for them as his kindly visitor had cared for him. The nurse in charge was alarmed at first by this behavior, but then observed that the American patient was helping and not hindering, so she held her peace.

Late one night, the ward was fairly quiet, with only a few coughs and mutterings heard, but Wilson was jolted out of a half-doze when he heard a faint stridorous noise.

He sat up and thrust the covers aside, climbing out of bed to stand somewhat unsteadily on still wobbly legs, clad only in a thin nightshirt. He cocked his head and heard the stridorous noise again.

For a moment, he relived an anxious time in Joey's childhood when the boy had the croup, and had struggled to breathe. He recognized the sound, and made his way over to a crib across the room and looked down at the child inside.

Even in the dim light, he could see a two-year-old in distress. The child's breaths were audible as a high-pitched whistle, her lips were cyanotic, her little hands were waving frantically, and he could see the muscles retracting at the base of her neck in her fight to get oxygen. Worst of all, her eyes were wide open and fixed on Wilson, begging him to help her.

He turned from the crib and staggered to the nearest window. It took all of his strength to force it open, but he managed it, and the cold night air poured in. He dragged a chair next to the window, and then hurried back to the child, rolling her in a blanket so that only her face was showing.

Somehow he made it back to the chair he had placed by the window, and all but fell onto it, still clutching the child in his arms.

He managed to support her so that she was almost upright, and the cold air blew in her face, helping to relax the laryngeal spasms that were choking off her airway. Eventually the stridor eased, and the effort of breathing as well, and her small body relaxed in his arms as she fell asleep.

Wilson looked down at the pale little face, and tears came to his eyes as he held her closer, and shivered a little in the cold breeze from the open window. She would be fine now, he thought. Just as Joey had been.

The tears fell more freely as he wondered where his son was now, and if he were safe.

The night nurse came in then, and hurried to the window, where the grizzled POW held a sleeping child in his arms, bundled up against the cold night air.

She started to expostulate with him in German, and then Wilson looked up at her.

"Croup," he said.

"_Kruppe?" _she gasped. She bent and put her ear against the child's chest. Apparently satisfied, she put a gentle hand on Wilson's shoulder. "_Danke."_

Wilson remembered a phrase from his visit with the kindly old lady.

"_Bitte sehr,"_ he replied.

...

The next day, Wilson was examined by a harried doctor, and apparently deemed fit for return to the stalag. Shortly thereafter Sergeant Schultz arrived to escort him back to captivity.

On the ride back to Stalag 13, Schultz happily provided Wilson with details of camp life that he had missed during his hospitalization.

"Oh, Sergeant Wilson, you will be glad to know that all of your patients are doing better - Sergeant Thomas has been looking after them. Even the Kommandant is feeling better. He caught the flu as well, but Corporal LeBeau cured him right away!"

"Is that right?"

"_Ja, _the big shot was so sick, and was almost going to go to a rest camp, but LeBeau used a string of garlic, and a béarnaise sauce plaster..."

"_What_ kind of plaster did you say?"

"Béarnaise sauce. He was going to use a mustard plaster, but he did not have any mustard, so..."

"Of course." Wilson grinned and shook his head as the truck pulled into the gates of the camp. Yep, not much changed at good old Stalag 13. He was glad to be home.


	3. The second string

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

* * *

Sure, I've got a few minutes. Colonel Hogan says that since you've been cleared, I can answer any questions you have. I know it can be a little confusing here at first.

See, here's the deal, kid. We're all volunteers on this bus. If you can't cut it, the Colonel will get you back to England and you can get back in the war from there. But we're doing good stuff here, and I think you're gonna do fine.

So, what did you do in civilian life? A machinist? Hey, that's great. I think the Colonel will be glad to hear that - he likes to see his men using their talents. And where are you from? Flint, Michigan, huh? You should feel right at home here - Scotty and Kinch are from Michigan too.

You've met Kinch? He's the right hand man, the Colonel's second in command. Smartest guy in camp, no question. Although Baker's pretty smart, too. What are they doing here? Well, it's true the US military is segregated, but not a lot of people know that the Tuskegee Airmen had a couple of bomber crews working out of London in 1942. Kinda like a test run for their program, I guess. Rumor has it Colonel Hogan was the one to arrange it.

Yeah, it was pretty hush-hush. I guess it was lucky only one of their crews got shot down...Kinch was the navigator, Baker was the radio man, Broughton was the tail gunner, Jones over in Barracks 7 was the waist gunner, and Watkins in Barracks 12 was the bombardier. The hell of it was, the pilot and copilot didn't make it. Anyway, the guys ended up here, probably 'cause the Krauts didn't know what else to do with them.

Turns out Klink had no problem with having them assigned here. Gotta hand it to the guy, color isn't an issue with him. He just sees a bunch of Allies who he thinks are losing the war, and he gloats over the fact that we're his prisoners and NOBODY escapes from Stalag 13, see?

But we've all got our jobs to do here. No room for squabbles, unless of course we're planning a diversion. Running a good diversion is one of the most important jobs we do here. So is digging tunnels...but that's not nearly as much fun.

You won't go outside the wire unless you can speak German like a native. Yeah, I'm pretty good at it. My folks come from the old country, you know. They run a dairy farm in Wisconsin near a town called - wait for it - New Berlin. I grew up speaking the lingo. Never thought it would come in handy...but I never thought I'd be in a POW camp in the middle of Germany either.

Not that I go outside the wire much. That's usually up to Colonel Hogan's main team - Kinch, Carter, Baker, LeBeau and Newkirk. The rest of us in Barracks 2, well, you might call us the second string. We're there in the background, ready to help out, sometimes to cover during roll call when one of the other guys is on a mission, sometimes just to aggravate the Krauts and keep 'em confused.

One of the ways we do that is to mess up Schultz's clipboard. He knows us by face - the second string, I mean - but we keep changing the names on the clipboard so he's never sure just who's lined up for roll call. For example, Broughton gets called Garth a lot. Thomas gets called Foster, too. And my name's Roy Goldman, you know, but I've been called Hammond, Walters and Abrams as well. Once I spent a whole month as Olsen!(1)

Who's Olsen? He's our outside man. You won't see much of him, probably. Nice guy, though. Dark haired like me, but a bit taller.

How'd I get here? Usual way, I guess. I was a bombardier like Watkins over in Barracks 12. Got shot down over Enthaven, captured by some local farmer, sent to a transit camp, then a Dulag, then here. Don't really want to talk about that. Not a good experience, you might say.

Yeah, when I got here I went through the same thing you did - they checked me out thoroughly to make sure the Krauts hadn't planted me here. Then the Colonel gave me the choice: stay, and help the operation; stay, and just keep quiet about the operation; or take off for England the next time a flier got picked up and could take my place.

Nah, it was an easy decision. I'm Jewish, you know, and I figure every time a Jew gets the chance to stick it to the Krauts, it's a good thing. Don't figure I would do well back in the air anyway. I was having trouble with my ears from the altitude, and I would've been stuck on the ground if I went back to England.

The most dangerous thing I've done since I got here? Ha, that's an easy one. It was the time Addison and I got assigned the job of guarding a Kraut spy by the name of Decker(2). We had to drag his sorry behind to the coast, where he got picked up by the sub and taken to England. Some scary moments for sure when we ran into a Gestapo patrol, with Major Hochstetter, no less, but like I said, I'm pretty good with German, and Addison pretty much kept quiet. He's good at that, you might have noticed. Anyway, I thought for a minute there that Hochstetter was looking at us kinda funny, but he let us go and we didn't have any further problems.

Yeah, we keep busy here, both up top and down in the tunnels. But you're right, we'll all be glad when the Allied tanks roll through the front gates and we get liberated at last. Civilian life? No, not for me. I figure to re-enlist once I get back to the States. Yeah, really. I've been helping Scotty out in the infirmary, you know, and since I don't think I can get back in the air, I'm thinking I might ask to train as a corpsman. And work in a field hospital, maybe.

Anyway, Slim, welcome to Barracks 2. We're glad to have you on board.

* * *

(1) "No Names, Please"

(2) "Bad Day in Berlin"


	4. Olsen

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes, and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

* * *

Somewhere near Hammelburg, Germany  
1942

The night was chill with the onset of autumn, and to the man crouched in the underbrush, it was endless.

_No matter how many times I do this, I'll never get used to it._

Waiting for an underground contact could be a matter of moments or hours, or a matter of just giving up when the time came near to roll call. He shifted his weight cautiously, then froze at the sound of a breaking twig. His hand slid to the revolver he had hidden at the small of his back, but the next moment he was thrown to the ground, and an arm was around his neck.

_Dear God, I've had it._

A hand roughly covered his mouth and a voice said in German, very softly in his ear, "Not a word, or I will kill you. Understand?"

Vaguely surprised that he had even been consulted on the matter, Olsen managed to nod.

Moments later a patrol could be heard thrashing through the bushes, then there were a few muttered comments, a stifled laugh, and the noises faded off into the distance.

Olsen's attacker released his grip on the hapless POW's neck and allowed him to sit up. Olsen looked up and gasped.

"_Colonel?"_

The man bent closer to Olsen, peering at his face in the faint light. "_Verdammt!_ Olsen, is that you?"

"Yes, sir."

Colonel Robert Hogan swore under his breath, in English this time. "What the hell are you doing out here, soldier?" He remained crouched beside Olsen, his eyes constantly checking their surroundings, obviously still on high alert.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I might ask you the same question."

"And you understood when I spoke to you in German," Hogan said in that language, ignoring Olsen's statement.

Olsen replied again, this time in German, "Begging your pardon, sir, but I might ask you the same question."

Hogan grinned briefly. "Fair enough. But explanations can wait. I'm done here for the night. Need to get back to my bunk for a few hours of shut-eye before roll call."

"Me too." There was no chance of meeting his contact now, so Olsen led the way through the woods back to the stalag. Hogan watched without comment as the younger man paused, crouching, then moved quickly to the fenced perimeter of the compound, avoiding the sweep of the searchlight. He looked back at Hogan and gestured with one hand, and Hogan joined Olsen at the edge of the fence.

Waiting in the shadows for the searchlight to make its sweep again, Olsen carefully peeled back a section of fence, enough for him and the Colonel to slither through. Keeping to the shadows of the various barracks buildings, the two men made their way through the compound to Barracks 2. This time Hogan led the way, easing a shuttered window open to permit them to enter.

Olsen found himself inside Hogan's office, which was dark, except for the dim light cast through the open window. Hogan quickly closed the shutters and the window, then put his finger to his lips. He opened the door of the office cautiously, peering out into the common room beyond. Nodding in satisfaction over the snuffling and snoring of the sleeping men, he went back to Olsen and whispered, "Outside the delousing station, right after roll call."

"Yes, sir," Olsen whispered in reply, and quietly left the office to seek his bunk.

...

The next morning, turning out for roll call was a distinct chore for the exhausted Olsen.

_Nothing wears you out as much as staying out all night and not accomplishing a damn thing by it._

He stood in his accustomed place in the back row behind Colonel Hogan and huddled in his jacket, as the morning was very cold for early September. Questions about his encounter with the Colonel a few hours earlier chased each other in his head.

_How much does he know? He's only been here a few weeks. I wonder what he's going to do about finding me outside the wire. I suppose that's grounds for a court martial...escaping without leave, so to speak._

He yawned and stamped his feet as Sergeant Schultz laboriously counted each one of his charges. When he reached Olsen, he smiled and declared triumphantly, "_Fünfzehn!" _and turned to the impatiently waiting Kommandant.

"All present and accounted for, _Herr Kommandant!_"

Klink impatiently returned the sergeant's salute. "Yes, yes, yes, that will be all. Diss-missed!"

As soon as the Kommandant strutted back to the Kommandantur, riding crop tucked neatly under one arm, Olsen casually wandered over to the delousing station, hands in the pockets of his flight jacket and eyes on the ground.

Sure enough, he collided, almost accidentally, with the Senior POW Officer.

"Sorry, sir!"

"Sergeant, watch where you're going!" In a lower tone, Hogan added, "All right, give. Who are you? Or more to the point, _**what **_are you?"

Olsen glanced at him briefly and then looked away. Shortly after the Colonel's arrival at Stalag 13, Olsen had checked with his superiors and they had verified that Hogan was legit, but he had not received instructions to share information with the Colonel. Still, it had been made clear to him that he was under Hogan's command while assigned to the camp, and he decided he had no choice but to level with the guy.

"Army Intelligence," he said.

Hogan leaned back against the wall of delousing station and wrapped his arms around himself in the way that was peculiarly his. "Army Intelligence," he mused.

Olsen grinned unwillingly. "I know - a contradiction in terms. But I'm working in cooperation with British intelligence, as well."

"Oh, that makes it all better." Hogan surveyed the compound, where prisoners were starting to line up for the mess hall. "Why here?"

Olsen sighed. "My latest assignment. Klink tends to have important visitors and he loves to brag about them and their doings - often in earshot of the prisoners. The visitors themselves are pretty indiscreet - probably because they think we're no threat to them. I relay the information through an underground contact, or directly by shortwave that one of my contacts has hidden."

"Kinda restrictive...having to be back by roll call twice a day, I mean."

Olsen rubbed the back of his neck wearily. "Yeah."

"Anybody in camp know what you're up to?"

"The guys in Barracks 2 know I'm out and about after hours, but everyone has been careful not to discuss it with me."

Hogan grinned. "I'll bet. Look, I've got an idea, but let me mull it over for a bit. Last night I was out doing a little reconnaissance, and it got me to thinking. I want to see you in my office later, after evening roll call."

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, where did you learn your German?"

Olsen looked him in the eye. "West Point, sir. And you?"

Hogan nodded. "The same. But one of my grandparents was born here, so I had a head start. Your rank?"

"Captain, sir."

"Thought so. I'll see you later."

...

"You do not care for my _ragoût_?" LeBeau said in an offended tone. He was cooking for the men of Barracks 2 this evening as a respite from mess hall fare, and he obviously expected his efforts to be appreciated.

Olsen looked up from his plate. "No, really, it's very good, Louis."

"Then eat, _mon ami! _You are much too thin, _certainement_."

"I'm eating, I'm eating!" Olsen began to shovel the fragrant stew into his mouth in a less than polite manner. It was delicious, he realized.

_Too much on my mind, I guess. I wonder what the Colonel has up his sleeve? He's been keeping a low profile since he got here, just biding his time, I suppose. I can't interfere with his plans but I've got my own orders to carry out as well._

Minsk finished off his serving with every evidence of enthusiasm. "It is not the borscht my Mama used to make, but it is very good, Louis."

LeBeau was visibly gratified. "_Merci, _Sam. But do not talk of beet soup to me; it is an abomination!"

Olsen caught Kinch's eye across the table and the two exchanged a grin over LeBeau's conversation. Olsen reflected that one of the perks being assigned to a POW camp was the camaraderie he had found here. He had been brought up on a farm near Lake Wobegon, Minnesota, and there were times when he was achingly homesick for his home and family; but being with Kinch, Newkirk, LeBeau and the others helped to ease that.

Olsen had found out that Newkirk and LeBeau had been at Stalag 13 for nearly two years. Kinchloe, Baker, and Broughton were all relatively new to Barracks 2, having been captured about a month after Olsen had arrived at Stalag 13.

Olsen had arranged for his own insertion into Stalag 13 by the simple expedient of walking along the Hammelburg road just as Colonel Klink's staff car was due to come by. Klink had been inordinately proud of himself for capturing the dangerous American, and lost no time in having Olsen processed as a new prisoner in his escape-proof camp.

At first his role as POW had been a relief to Olsen, as he had been playing the part of various _Heer__, Luftwaffe, _and _Abwehr_ officers for some months previous. But, as Hogan had pointed out that morning, being a POW had its limitations; lack of freedom of movement being the most obvious one.

_I wonder if the Colonel's gonna put a stop to my outside activities. Or make me leave here instead. Hate to admit it, but I think I would miss the place._

Newkirk, having finished his share of _ragoût _in record time (despite a disgusted remark about "ruddy French concoctions"), now leaned across the table toward Olsen.

"And 'ow about a friendly 'and or two of poker, Johnny me boy?" There was a glint in the British corporal's eye that Olsen knew well, and he shook his head in mock regret.

"Not tonight, Peter. Gotta talk to the Colonel about a personal matter."

Newkirk shrugged and said, "Maybe tomorrow, then, mate."

A stentorian bellow had all of them outside shortly, as Schultz announced roll call. After the tedious ritual was completed and the prisoners dismissed, Olsen followed the Colonel back into the barracks and perched himself on the lower bunk in Hogan's office. He watched solemnly as the CO paced back and forth.

"I'm an officer; it's my duty to escape." Hogan was talking to himself more than to Olsen.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"On the other hand, I have a command here in this camp. I can't desert these men."

"No, sir."

"And yet here I am, in a perfect situation!"

"Sir?"

Hogan stopped in his tracks and pointed a finger at Olsen. "I've got you - an inside man! No, what's even better, you're an outside man! You've got underground connections and a way to communicate with the Allied High Command. I know, I know, we're not part of your assignment, but why can't we join forces, as it were?"

"Uh..."

Hogan gazed off into the distance. "I can see it now...we'll get the whole camp involved. They've already started digging tunnels - I'll have them set up a complete system. An entrance to every barracks. One to Klink's quarters, too. Never know when it might come in handy."

Olsen watched in fascinated awe. The man was clearly a lunatic, but there was something so compelling about his insanity...

The Colonel started pacing again. "We've actually got it pretty good here. Klink is an idiot, and I have a feeling I could have him believing _down_ is _up_ if I play him right. And Stalag 13 is the perfect base, if you stop and think about it. We're housed and fed, and we're safe from the war. Work details routinely go outside the wire, and nobody worries 'cause no prisoner has ever successfully escaped from Stalag 13!"

"No, sir."

"And no one ever will! That's our trump card. We'll be free to operate because we have the perfect alibi."

"Operate, sir?"

"Yeah..." Hogan had that faraway look in his eye again. "No reason we couldn't help other guys escape, is there? Outfit them for the journey to the coast?"

Olsen cleared his throat. "Actually, sir, the underground cell in Hammelburg has helped a few downed fliers do just that."

"Clothes, maps, money?"

"Yes."

"Okay, we can build on that. Talk about safe houses...we'll be the safest house ever, once our tunnel system gets going. Not just for downed fliers locally, but for guys who've managed to escape from other prison camps but don't have the connections to make it out of Germany. And you know, we have men here with all sorts of skills. We can branch out into other areas. Set up a printing press, maybe, and distribute pamphlets. Or...better yet, counterfeit money!"

Hogan paused, and then looked at Olsen ruefully. "My ideas get away from me sometimes. But I was thinking all of this might help you out. If we could smuggle in downed fliers and escapees from other prison camps, one or more of them could take your place temporarily, and you could be free to operate outside and make your contacts without having to be back for roll call. And if we can set up some kind of listening device in Klink's office, we can gather more intelligence for you to pass on."

Olsen was feeling an odd combination of relief and exhilaration, listening to Hogan's plans.

_Hey, they probably called Edison crazy too._

"Or I could attempt an escape, and one of them could be recaptured in my place," he suggested.

Hogan was pleased. "You've got the idea! First off, we need a Kraut to look the other way...I'm thinking Schultz. A judicious combination of bribery and threats of being sent to the Russian front should do it..."

...

A few evenings later, after roll call, Olsen and Hogan were once more at large outside the wire. An arrangement to contact London had been made through Oskar Schnitzer, who had visited the camp with some new guard dogs, and the two men were on their way to meet with Max, another of Olsen's underground contacts. About an hour later, after a circuitous route through the woods and down a lonely lane, they fetched up at a small cottage. Olsen led the way to the back door and tapped on it - four brisk taps, followed by three taps with pauses in between.

The door opened and a stocky dark-haired man moved aside to allow them to enter.

Oleson made the introductions, and Max stepped forward to shake Hogan's hand.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Colonel. We are at your service."

"Thanks, Max." Hogan looked around the small room. "You have your shortwave here?"

"Right here, Colonel." Max moved across the room to where a bureau stood against the wall. He shoved it aside to reveal an alcove containing the shortwave apparatus.

Olsen nodded his thanks and went to the radio, putting the headphones over his ears. He switched it on and tilted his head, listening intently as he tuned it in to the secret frequency.

"This is Prince Charming, calling Old King Cole. Come in, Old King Cole."

Hogan's eyebrows shot up and Olsen could feel himself turning red.

"I didn't choose the name, Colonel - Yes, this is Prince Charming. Yes, sir. He's right here, sir. One moment, please." He took off the headphones and handed them to Hogan.

Hogan put on the headphones and then took the microphone from Olsen. "This is Colonel Robert Hogan. Yes, sir. I believe the situation has great potential, sir. The camp is small, twenty barracks, not all of them occupied. About three hundred, three hundred fifty prisoners. Buildings close to the ground, compound surrounded by woods. About three miles from town, yes. Cooperation? Sir, I've been here several weeks and I've gotten to know these men. I have no doubts whatsoever. The Kommandant? I feel quite confident he will be open to manipulation. And some of the guards will be open to bribery, as well. We will need outside help, of course...parachute drops? Yes, sir!"

Olsen watched the Colonel with growing respect. The enthusiastic visionary of a few evenings before was now revealed to be a cool-headed pragmatist as well.

_Maybe this thing is gonna work..._

"Olsen, I need you to write this down."

Max hurriedly handed Olsen a pad of paper and a stub of a pencil.

"Okay, Olsen, these are our orders: 'You will assist escaping prisoners, cooperate with all friendly forces, and use every means to harass and injure the enemy.' Got that, Olsen?"

"Got it, Colonel."

Hogan signed off and turned to Olsen, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "That's it, Olsen. You have just witnessed a rare example of Allied cooperation. Our contact in London will be British: code name, Mama Bear."

"And your code name, Colonel?"

"What else? Papa Bear!"

...

In the months following, Olsen wasn't surprised to see every one of Hogan's crazy ideas come true, including the setup of a shortwave in the tunnels. Of course, for his plans to be workable, every one of the three hundred plus Allied occupants of the POW camp had to cooperate, and a few of the guards too. Most of the POWs were content to be passive participants, figuring they were in a fairly decent situation at Stalag 13, considering the risks involved in escaping back to England.

A few wanted no part of Hogan's schemes, and agreed to be transferred out, and eventually enabled to escape if they wished. Some were transferred out in this way for their own safety, specifically the handful of Russian prisoners, including Sergeant Vladimir Minsk. Olsen was sad to see Minsk go, but he knew that eventually the Russians would have been sent to one of the labor camps, and this was Minsk's best chance to avoid that fate.

A few were active participants in the operation, and the ones with the highest security clearance were Kinchloe, Newkirk, Baker, LeBeau, and Olsen himself.

Then came the 499th customer of the Traveler's Aid Society, an escapee from Stalag 5 by the name of Lieutenant Carter. He liked what he saw of their operation so much, he turned around before he reached the coast and returned to Stalag 13. When he showed up on their doorstep again, he explained to Colonel Hogan that he wanted to be part of the operation too, even if it meant taking a reduction in rank to be allowed to stay at an NCO camp. Hogan was skeptical at first, but agreed after seeing Carter's obvious enthusiasm. Of course, that meant some fancy footwork, as he had to be officially captured as Sergeant Carter rather than take Olsen's place as he had done initially, and Schultz had to be convinced that he had never seen Carter before, but it was worth it. With the addition of Carter, Hogan had an explosives expert, and the operation could now branch out into sabotage as well.

Meanwhile, Olsen continued his espionage activities outside the wire with Hogan's blessing, eventually training the others of Hogan's main team in the fine art of spying and helping them to improve their German so they could pass muster among the natives.

Once the gang at Stalag 13 had established themselves as a rescue, espionage, and sabotage unit, it was time for Olsen to move on. Newkirk filched his POW paperwork from Klink's office, a new downed flier took his place at roll call, and it was as though Sergeant John Olsen had never been there. He returned to the German military identities that had served him in the past as part of his ongoing work with military intelligence, now part of the fledgling OSS.

Eventually, though, he adopted USAAF identities as well. In one instance, he was called back to England to assist in Colonel Hogan's scheme involving the supposed theft of a P-51 fighter plane, as Lieutenant Mills. The demands of the mission meant he had very little time to spend with the Colonel, however, and he was soon back in Germany, with the new assignment of infiltrating other stalags to gather intelligence and to facilitate escapes by POWs there. More than once he found himself shepherding a bunch of escaped POWs to Stalag 13 for processing and eventual dispatch to England.

On one of these trips, he found himself alone with Hogan in the emergency tunnel.

Hogan looked at him keenly. "What's your name this time - Lieutenant Bigelow?"

Olsen gave a weary shake of his head. "Nah, that was the time I got caught in the cave-in. Today I'm Captain Anderson. I gotta tell you, Colonel, it's getting to the point where I don't know who I am any more."

Hogan's voice was gruff. "Listen, whenever you need to, come back to Stalag 13, okay? Your friends are here, and we know who you are, even if you don't."

Olsen had to blink a few times, but he managed a grin. "Thanks. I'll remember that."

...

A few weeks later it happened. Olsen was on his way back to Stalag 7 after a successful delivery of escaped POWs, when a Gestapo patrol crossed his path. There was a flurry of shots, and angry voices, and Olsen found himself lying in the road with an agonizing pain in his thigh, and four Gestapo officers pointing their weapons at him. A fifth officer came up, and reprimanded the group for being trigger-happy.

"You waste your ammunition on such as this? We want to capture the man, not kill him." The newcomer came closer and peered down at Olsen. "Another American swine," he announced.

Olsen recognized him as Major Hochstetter, and closed his eyes in resignation.

_Could this day possibly get any worse?_

One of the group applied a rough bandage to his leg and then hauled him to his feet. A few words from Hochstetter, and Olsen was put in the back of a staff car and driven to Hammelburg.

...

Alone in a cell, his leg throbbing and his head woozy, Olsen tried to think about his options - except there didn't seem to be any. He was in Gestapo hands now, and although he had received training to withstand interrogation, he wasn't so sure how well he would stand up to it, now that he was faced with the reality. And Hochstetter had a reputation for being ruthless, and maybe a little crazy besides.

_Oh, man. Things don't look so good._

He was left alone for the moment, however, and an hour or so later he was roused from an uneasy doze by raised voices. The voices became louder as booted feet approached his cell. He opened his eyes to see three men staring at him through the bars.

Two of them were dressed in Luftwaffe uniform, and the third was one of the Gestapo officers who had captured him.

One of the Luftwaffe officers - a general - turned to the Gestapo man. "_Ja, ja..._a sorry state of affairs, indeed. Stalag 7 has done an exceedingly poor job of keeping its prisoners where they belong, _ja? _I will not have it! This prisoner will be transported immediately to the most secure stalag in all of Germany - Stalag 13! I will see to it myself."

"But, General von Siedelberg - " the flustered Gestapo officer began to protest.

"Enough!" said von Siedelberg in a superbly commanding tone, his eyes glittering behind his spectacles. "I will contact Major Hochstetter myself once the transfer has been completed. Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler," responded the Gestapo man weakly, returning von Siedelberg's salute. He unlocked the cell and von Siedelberg's subordinate pushed past him to help Olsen to his feet. It wasn't until they were safely outside the building and in the staff car that the subordinate began to speak.

"Blimey, John! What 'appened to you?" Newkirk's voice was chiding, but his eyes were anxious as he examined the bandage on Olsen's thigh.

"Hochstetter's group took a shot at me. Lucky I'm not dead, I guess."

Carter (alias von Siedelberg) and Newkirk exchanged glances, then Carter said soothingly, "Boy, I guess you're right! But don't worry, we'll have you back at camp in a jiff."

"Right you are, Andrew. No need to tarry 'ere." Newkirk got behind the wheel and they were off.

...

Within half an hour Olsen was safely tucked up in a cot in one of the tunnels at Stalag 13, after his wound had been cleaned and properly dressed by a gruff Scotty.

"This is what comes from traipsing around the countryside," he scolded Olsen. "Who were you supposed to be this time?"

Olsen tried not to laugh. "Lieutenant Mills again."

"Hmm. An officer, huh?" Scotty rubbed his chin as he thought this over. "Guess I wouldn't worry too much. The Colonel will have you busted down to sergeant in no time...seemed to work for Carter."

Carter, who had been watching the proceedings with an air of great interest, nodded in agreement. "I don't even hardly remember being a lieutenant now."

Newkirk swatted him with his cap. "You wouldn't remember your own name if we weren't 'ere to remind you, Andrew! And Johnny, don't you fret about a thing, now. We've got a bloke ready to leave for England, and you can take 'is place in the barracks. And I kept your old paperwork as Sergeant Olsen after I pinched it from Klink's office, you know. Won't be the work of a minute to slip it back in there again."

"Then you'd better get to it, hadn't you?" suggested Colonel Hogan pleasantly as he came into the room.

Newkirk and Carter excused themselves and left quickly, and Scotty made himself scarce as well.

Hogan pulled up a rickety stool close to Olsen's cot and sat down. He looked over the injured man carefully for a moment, and then gave him a crooked grin. "I told you that you could come back again, but I didn't mean like this!"

"Sorry, Colonel, I must've been careless. But how did you know to send Carter and Newkirk after me?"

"I have my connections. Got an anonymous message that you were locked up in Hammelburg."

"An anonymous message! Do you have any idea who sent it? I gotta tell you, Colonel, I was not looking forward to being interrogated by Hochstetter."

Hogan grinned. "Oh, I know who sent it all right. And don't worry about Hochstetter - that situation is under control. I wanted to let you know, too, that I've been in contact with your people in London. They've agreed to let me have you for the duration." He paused. "You know, Olsen, you've been out there on your own for quite awhile. It was time for you to come in from the cold."

Olsen took a deep breath and then let it out. "Maybe you're right. Thanks, Colonel."

"Not a problem." Hogan got up and headed for the doorway. As he reached it, he turned and looked at Olsen.

"By the way, kid - welcome home."


	5. Helga and Hilda

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

Well, they're not guys, and they weren't exactly in the back row, but Hilda and Helga were definitely in the background assisting Colonel Hogan's operation. Hilda tells Helga of her adventure during "Reverend Kommandant Klink".

* * *

A little old lady tottered her way down the narrow _Strasse _in Hammelburg, pausing to look both ways before crossing to the shabby apartment building at the corner. The wind was picking up and she clutched her shawl closer around her thin body with one hand, shifting the weight of her market basket to the other.

Reaching the entrance of the building, the woman pushed the heavy door open and went inside. The front lobby was empty and the building quiet, for the moment at least. The woman sighed and started the climb to the second floor.

When she reached the landing, she peered down the hallway before proceeding to the third door on the left. Before putting her key in the lock, the woman put her ear to the door. Hearing nothing but silence, she nodded in satisfaction and let herself into the apartment.

Closing the door behind her, Helga Schiller set down her basket and took off her hat, then the gray wig, and finally the shapeless brown coat. She put the items carefully away in a wardrobe, and then slowly stretched, trying to ease the stiffness from her imitation of an elderly lady's stooped posture. She ran her fingers through her fair hair, then went to the wash basin to remove the old-age makeup from her face.

A noise from the hallway caused her to stiffen and glance apprehensively toward the door. Then a series of light taps reassured her and she relaxed and shook her head. Her double life was necessary, but so stressful for the nerves.

There was a sound of a key in the lock, and then the door opened only enough to allow the slender form of another young woman to enter. She closed the door and came into the room, smiling, holding out her oversized handbag to Helga.

Helga smiled back, and took the bag and peeked inside.

"Hilda! Nylons, and chocolate! And what is this package?"

"A pound of coffee," Hilda replied, taking off her coat and hanging it in the wardrobe.

Helga shook her head. "Colonel Hogan never gave me this much when I was Kommandant Klink's secretary, cousin dear."

"Do you want to know how I earned it?" Hilda's eyes were dancing.

"I am afraid to ask."

"I almost got married this evening!"

"_What?" _Helga collapsed on the sofa and eyed her cousin. "To whom? Colonel Hogan?"

"Oh, no." Hilda sat down next to Helga and smiled. "To a Frenchman. Very nice young man...and so handsome."

Helga rolled her eyes. "Now tell me the truth. What happened?"

Hilda pondered this for a moment. "To be truthful, I am not quite sure. Colonel Hogan asked me - in that way he has, you know -"

"Oh, I know."

"Well, he asked me to take part in a theatrical performance this evening. Except I wasn't really going to be in it, I was just going to pretend to be in it. I dressed up as a bride, and then I exchanged clothes with this young Frenchwoman, and she played the bride instead."

"A Frenchwoman? Where did she come from?"

Hilda shrugged. "I don't know. It was one of Colonel Hogan's schemes, and they don't often make sense to me."

"That is so true! Did I ever tell you about the time I was pretending to be a manicurist in the tunnels, to help Colonel Hogan confuse a spy who was pretending to be a prisoner?"

"No, and I don't think I want to hear it, I am confused myself...Wait, you were actually in the tunnels?"

"Only the one time. You know about the tunnels?"

"I found out by accident, but I didn't dare ask Colonel Hogan about them, someone might have overheard. There are many things I would like to ask him, but for now, I take him on faith."

"As I did. Faith that somehow he is working to help end the war, and to rid our country of Hitler." Helga sighed. "I wish I could do more of that work, to be active in the underground again."

Hilda frowned. "After that time you spent being interrogated by the Gestapo? Kommandant Heydrich would have arrested you if you had not gone into hiding. He would still arrest you, if he knew where you are. He will not give up; believe me, I know, after working for them for almost a year."

"I still don't know how you could have worked for the Gestapo."

"I was merely a secretary, but I hoped to learn something from the officers who came into the office there in Berlin." Her eyes darkened. "And I would have, too, but my boss made it clear he didn't want me working there anymore."

"What reason did he give?"

"He said he was worried about me. He said he wanted me to leave Berlin."

Helga eyed her cousin speculatively. "Did he say why?"

"No."

Helga said in an overly casual tone, "This Gestapo boss of yours. Was he perhaps tall, dark, and handsome?"

Hilda laughed. "Dark, _ja. _Tall and handsome, _nein._" She paused. "If you had been able to be at Stalag 13 this evening, you would have seen him for yourself."

"Your Gestapo boss was at the camp? What was his name - Major Hochstetter? Why was he there?"

"He came all the way from Berlin to question the Frenchman I told you about. Then he stayed to watch the perfomance of the wedding this evening. He looked very confused by the whole thing."

"Colonel Hogan's plans seem to have that effect on people."

"Yes, but I think I will continue to help him as much as I can. Were you able to get any more information while you were out today, _Grossmutter _Leitner?"

"Yes, let me write it down for you." Helga scribbled a few lines down on a sheet of paper, folded it, and handed it to her cousin. "There were a few SS officers in the _Kaffeehaus _today. They were talking about troop movements; I hope it will be helpful."

Hilda tucked the note in her pocket. "One never knows. But the more information we can give Colonel Hogan, the better, I feel." She sighed. "I wish I could let him know that you are helping, but..."

"It is best that no one knows that I am here in Hammelburg. Not while I am on the Gestapo watch list, you know that."

"I know, and you only dare go out in your _Grossmutter _disguise." Hilda got to her feet and went to put the kettle on. "Damn this war! It is such a waste, that you spend the years of your youth dressed up as an old woman!"

"When one is in hiding, one does not have a choice in the matter," Helga pointed out. "I am just grateful that you were able to take me in."

Hilda waved that aside. "It is nothing. Let us talk of something else. What shall we do with our latest loot from Colonel Hogan?"

Helga pursed her lips thoughtfully. "The nylons we should be able to trade for potatoes and cabbage for the Bauer family. The coffee, I think, can be used to pay off the doctor's bill for Frau Meyer. And the chocolate..."

Hilda smiled. "Yes?"

"Can't we just give it to little Hans and Liesl?"

"Why not? I am sure Colonel Hogan will require my cooperation for another one of his incomprehensible schemes. There will always be more chocolate!"


	6. Addison

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love_.

We've seen the boys from Barracks 2 in German uniform often enough outside the wire. But there's one of the guys you can see every now and then, inexplicably taking the place of a Stalag 13 guard. In response to a request - and a challenge! - from konarciq, this is his story.

* * *

Addison was watching quietly while Sergeant Schultz was having an intense discussion with Private Kurtz, one of his guards. Addison was quiet because there was no one to talk with at the moment, and even if there had been someone there, he would have let them do most of the talking anyway. He was watching because he was a curious kind of guy, and not much escaped his notice.

As a resident of Barracks 2, Addison was more or less involved in all sorts of clandestine activities at Luft Stalag 13, but his tendency to stay in the background and observe, rather than offer his opinion as freely as his bunkmates did, meant he was often overlooked.

This didn't bother Addison. He was an observer by nature, not a participant. He understood German very well, and spoke it not quite so well, but that wasn't often noticed on a mission because he never spoke much anyway. His particular talent was establishing bonds with the various stalag guards. Each of them had a different background, and a different temperament, and he quietly found a way to connect with each one.

Their schedules were fairly predictable, and Addison kept a detailed chart in his head of all the guards' comings and goings. Colonel Hogan relied on him for this information, almost without realizing it. This didn't bother Addison either. Being taken for granted was a sort of honor, he felt. It meant that people trusted him to do his job without a second thought. And he never betrayed that trust.

His particular buddies in the barracks, Broughton, Goldman, and Garlotti, were a gregarious bunch and he enjoyed spending time with them, but more often he was to be found on his bunk, reading books he had "borrowed" from the guards' barracks_. _He found it rather amusing that the books didn't seem to be missed after he and the other prisoners assigned to cleaning duties had visited the building.

But watching what went on around him was the activity that occupied most of his free time. His most interesting observations often came while wandering the compound, doing nothing in particular. Today his attention had been caught by Schultz's discussion with the guard and he edged closer to the two, listening in.

"Please, Sergeant! My daughter needs me tomorrow. I am only scheduled to be posted at the door of the Kommandantur. Surely someone else could be assigned...my Johanna, she is only seven!"

"I wish I could help you, Christoph, but you have no leave due, and there is no one to take your place. The Kommandant would not be pleased if there was no one guarding the Kommandantur, it would not look good! And you know how he likes to have things looking good."

"_Ja." _The young private's tone was as dejected as his appearance.

Schultz became aware of Addison's presence at that point, and addressed the POW in English. "You, there, Addison! What do you want?"

Addison smiled his innocent smile and shrugged, and would have walked away, but Schultz stopped him.

Schultz glowered at him for a moment, and then he looked at Kurtz. A thoughtful look came over his face, and he looked at Addison again.

Addison and Kurtz looked at each other in bewilderment, and then back at Schultz.

Schultz began to walk around the two men, paused, and came around to face them again, staring at the two of them. Addison wondered why they appeared to be of such interest to the portly sergeant - two men of a similar height and coloring, nondescript, nothing significant in the appearance of either of them.

Schultz was muttering to himself, "Now, what would Colonel Hogan do?" He shook his head, and then appeared to come to a decision. "You, Addison, will be the guard posted at the Kommandantur tomorrow."

Addison's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to protest, but he was forestalled by Kurtz, who responded to Schultz in rapid German.

"He cannot do that! If he were discovered he would be shot - we would all be shot!"

"_Nein, _who would notice? Has the Kommandant ever even spoken to you? Of course not! All you do is stand there and keep your mouth shut. No offense, Christoph, but Addison can do that just as well as you."

Addison opened his mouth once more, but then remembered he wasn't supposed to be fluent in German, so he closed it again.

Schultz regarded his anguished subordinate for a moment, and then said kindly, "Your little girl needs you, Christoph. What kind of father would you be if you were not there when she has her operation tomorrow?"

Kurtz hung his head, and Addison's heart was wrung for the poor guy. So he started to wonder if it was such a far-fetched idea after all. Nobody paid any attention to Kurtz anyway, and nobody would miss Addison, either, as long as he showed up for roll call.

When Kurtz finally, reluctantly, agreed to the scheme, Schultz turned to Addison. "I will leave Christoph's uniform for you in a wash-bucket outside of Barracks 2 tomorrow, just after roll call." He looked Addison in the eye and added meaningfully, "Remember all the times when I saw nothing? Now it is your turn."

Addison wondered if Schultz had just threatened him with a little polite blackmail. What could he do except nod in agreement?

...

The next morning, Addison decided to skip breakfast and make do with one of the chocolate bars from his Red Cross package. As soon as the rest of the denizens of Barracks 2 trooped off to the mess hall after roll call, he snuck the wash-bucket into the barracks and quickly pulled on Christoph's uniform over his own. He pulled on the boots, buttoned up the overcoat and put on the helmet, then he went to the barracks door and eased it open a crack.

Seeing that the coast was clear, Addison strode boldly up to Sergeant Schultz and saluted.

Schultz looked him up and down and gave a nod of approval. "_Sehr gut,_ Private Kurtz! You will go to your post now. I will relieve you at lunch time." He looked around furtively and added in a lowered voice, "Christoph should be back late this afternoon."

Addison nodded. What could possibly go wrong?

...

Standing guard on the porch of the Kommandantur was quite possibly the most boring thing Addison had done since entering the gates of Stalag 13. He wondered how Kurtz managed to do it day after day. And it was such a pointless exercise, anyway. It wasn't as if Colonel Klink was going to escape...or was it?

But it was an excellent opportunity to observe. Amazing what a difference one's point of perspective made; just wearing the German uniform made him look at things differently.

That group of prisoners over there, for example. They were bunched together and speaking quietly among themselves. Maybe just discussing the last World Series. Maybe plotting something. Maybe talking about girls...well, there was no _maybe_ about that.

Addison adjusted his grip on his rifle and shifted his gaze toward the motor pool. Two guards - Kuhn and Gruler, if he wasn't mistaken - were supposed to be patrolling the compound, but instead were lounging about, talking and laughing together.

He narrowed his eyes. Kuhn and Gruler had suddenly straightened and hurriedly resumed their patrolling, after casting glances toward the front gates. Addison looked toward the front gates as well and gulped as he saw a staff car roll through the entrance.

So much for a peaceful afternoon with nothing happening. The car stopped in front of the Kommandantur and disgorged General Burkhalter, Major Hochstetter, and a third German officer whom Addison had never seen before.

As the group ascended the steps of the Kommandantur_, _Addison came stiffly to attention and saluted. The officers passed him as if he had been invisible and entered the building. That wasn't too surprising, as Addison had been treated as though he were invisible all day. Not one of the other guards or prisoners seemed to have noticed his presence, and he felt a twinge of pity for poor Kurtz. Bored and ignored...what a way to earn a living.

A few minutes later his commanding officer, his _real_ one, approached the Kommandantur at a brisk pace. Addison carefully kept his eyes forward, and other than giving him a courteous nod, Colonel Hogan didn't seem to notice him.

He exhaled slowly as the Colonel entered the Kommandantur_. _Addison wondered what was going on, and wished that he was one of the guys who got to listen in on the coffeepot tap to Klink's office.

About twenty minutes later, Klink, his visitors, and Hogan all emerged onto the porch of the building_, _and it seemed as though everyone was talking at once.

"Major Speer does not have the time to witness your volleyball game," General Burkhalter said acidly. "Even if it _is_ the championship, Colonel Hogan."

"Well, I would not mind..." began the visiting officer.

"General Burkhalter is right! No volleyball games!" Klink was fussing in his usual manner, and glaring at Hogan.

"But, General! After traveling all this way, isn't Major Speer entitled to a little rest and relaxation?" Hogan had that earnest, have-I-got-a-great-deal-for-you look on his face, and Addison wondered, not for the first time, if the Colonel had been a used-car salesman in civilian life.

"He is, but I can think of many other places more suitable for..." Burkhalter began, but was interrupted by a small tinkling noise. "What was that?"

"Yes, yes, what was that?" Klink looked all around in alarm, immediately assuming the worst.

"I heard nothing," growled Hochstetter.

Meanwhile, Addison noted from the corner of his eye a small cylindrical object rolling toward his foot. Keeping his face impassive and his eyes forward, he moved his foot slightly to nudge the object out of sight.

He was aware that Hogan's gaze was traveling from his feet up toward his face and his blood ran cold. It seemed as though what had started out as an innocent masquerade, to help someone in a time of need, might end up with his court-martial.

Burkhalter was impatient with Klink's continued fussing. "Ach, I am certain it was nothing, after all. You get too excited, Klink! You should be more like your soldier, here." He walked over to Addison, eyeing him closely, and Addison felt his blood run even colder. "Observe this man, Klink. In the midst of this lunatic asylum you call a prison camp, here is the perfect example of Teutonic stoicism and imperturbability! You would do well to emulate him. In fact, you must promote him, to remind yourself of the qualities you lack!"

Addison maintained his stoic appearance but he was aware of Klink's indignation, Hogan's dropped jaw, Speer's bewilderment, and Major Hochstetter's hastily smothered laugh.

"Very well," Klink said dolefully. "Congratulations, Corporal." Addison gave him a smart salute and Klink returned it with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

After this, Hogan's demeanor changed rapidly to that of a genial host speeding the parting guest. "Oh my goodness, yes, General, what was I thinking? Just because we feel Stalag 13 is Germany's answer to the Ritz-Carlton, it doesn't mean Major Speer would feel the same way! Have a nice trip, Major. Nice to see you again, General. You too, Major Hochstetter."

With a malevolent look at Hogan and a muttered "Bah!", Hochstetter led the group down the steps and to the waiting staff car.

After Klink waved them off, he came back up the steps of the porch_. _Pausing only to give Hogan a petulant "Diss-missed!", he ignored his newly promoted corporal and went into the building and slammed the door.

Hogan looked around, and then stooped down, apparently to tie his shoe. He spoke softly, not looking at Addison, but addressing him just the same. "As soon as you can get out of that uniform, I will see you in my office. Understood?"

Addison would have responded but Hogan was already down the steps and heading toward Barracks 2. Glancing down briefly at his feet, he noticed that the cylindrical object was no longer there. He gave a sigh and wondered what would happen next.

...

Half an hour later, Schultz showed up at the Kommandantur with Kurtz in tow. "You there! You are needed at the motor pool, and must come with me immediately."

Kurtz took Addison's place on the Kommandantur porch, giving him the merest glint of a grateful smile before assuming his usual stone-face expression. Addison handed off his rifle to him and then meekly followed Schultz to the motor pool.

Schultz looked around to be sure the place was empty, then he helped Addison quickly pull off his boots and remove the German overcoat and uniform. Addison put on his accustomed cap and straightened his own uniform shirt, which was sadly crumpled from being worn under the heavy clothing all day. He pulled on his shabby boots, and after exchanging a nod with Schultz, sauntered out into the compound.

He made his way over to Barracks 2, and after taking a deep breath, opened the door and went in.

As expected, Colonel Hogan was in his office, standing beside the crude bench that he used as a desk. Scattered around the room were Kinch, LeBeau, Carter, and Newkirk. It was enough to make a person feel that he was on trial or something, especially since the Colonel wore a rarely-seen thunderous expression.

"All right, Addison, you've got some fast talking to do. What the hell were you thinking?" As Addison was about to explain, Hogan held up a hand. "No, wait, you'll get your chance later. I want to make it clear to you that hijinks like that endanger our operation and our very lives!"

"Take it easy, sir," pleaded Carter. "It's not like he brought a Gestapo informant into the tunnels or anything..."

"Oi!" Newkirk was indignant that the sensitive subject had been brought up yet again.

"Sorry, Peter. I forgot you were sitting there." Carter ducked his head sheepishly.

LeBeau shushed the other two and then regarded Hogan with a reproachful air. He was a master of the puppy-dog-eyes technique and did not hesitate to use it. "_Mon Colonel_, you must have mercy! Have you never made a mistake?"

Kinch added, "You must admit, Colonel, that it was fortunate he was on the porch today. It would have been disastrous if the microfilm had been discovered."

Hogan pulled the small cylindrical object out of his pocket and looked at it. "You're right, Kinch. Poor old Speer was definitely a butterfingers today. And I do have Addison to thank for keeping it out of sight." A sound in the outer room made him turn his head, and he slipped the object back into his pocket.

The door of the office opened abruptly to reveal the rotund figure of Stalag 13's sergeant of the guard. Schultz swept into the already crowded room with a regal air, and having spotted Addison standing off to one side, walked over to him and placed a paternal hand on his shoulder.

Hogan's voice was edged with sarcasm. "Is there anything I can do for you, Schultz?"

"_Ja._ There is something I must tell you, Colonel Hogan, and I hope you will not be not too upset by Addison wearing Private Kurtz's uniform today..."

"_Upset!_ Of course I'm upset! When I saw him on the porch of the Kommandantur...hey, wait a minute. Schultz! Was this _your _doing?"

Schultz nodded with great dignity. "_Ja_, Private Kurtz's little girl was having surgery today, and I could not release him from his duties. Addison was kind enough to take his place; he only did it to help Private Kurtz, you see."

"Oh, he helped him all right. Private Kurtz is now a corporal, thanks to Addison." Hogan folded his arms and gave Schultz a steely look.

Schultz beamed. "_So! _Christoph will be pleased to hear that. And the extra money will help to pay the doctor's bill."

Carter interrupted. "Private Kurtz's little girl had surgery today? You mean Johanna?" He looked at Schultz with an anxious expression. 'He told me all about her, you know, that day when he was helping me look for Felix. Is she gonna be okay?"

"The doctor says she will be fine now," Schultz reassured him. "Especially since she was able to see her _Vati_ when she woke up from the ether." He paused, then eyed Carter narrowly. "Who is this Felix?"

"Never mind that, Schultz," Hogan said. "What I want to know is why you chose Addison for Kurtz's stand-in."

"Why?" Schultz's round blue eyes were aglow with innocence. "Because that is what you would have done."

"_What!_" Hogan's men had never seen him turn that shade of red before.

"_Ja,_ a bit of monkey business. You understand monkey business, Colonel Hogan, do you not?" Schultz gave Hogan a seraphic smile. "And it was for a good cause. You need have no fear that young Christoph will talk about it, either. He is too grateful, and also too scared of what might happen to him if the big shot finds out."

As he turned to go, Schultz waved a cautionary finger under the Colonel's nose. "One thing that I have learned from you, Colonel Hogan, is that sometimes it is best to know nothing - NOTHING! Perhaps you should do the same?"

With that, he opened the office door and left. The boys of Barracks 2 all looked at each other, and then at Colonel Hogan.

Their commanding officer took several deep, calming breaths, and his color slowly returned to normal. Then he looked around at his men, the familiar quirky smile in place.

"Well, I'll be a son of a gun. Who'd have thought that Schultz, of all people, would pull something like that?" Hogan shook his head, and then the smile became calculating. "But now he owes us, big time."

Kinch nodded thoughtfully. "That's true, Colonel. And it seems to me an extra pair of eyes and ears at the Kommandantur might be an advantage. So if Private - I mean _Corporal_ - Kurtz needs to be absent again..."

"We've got a pinch-hitter right here." Hogan's smile became even broader. "Addison, you've got a new part-time job!"

Addison was about to tell all of them that there was no way he was going to play a German soldier again, but with all the guys laughing and congratulating him on his new job, he just smiled instead.

After all, Kurtz might have an ambition to be promoted to sergeant...


	7. Garlotti

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

To all of those heroes who fought a war, and then fought a second war as a POW...you are not forgotten.

* * *

Newark, New Jersey, June 10, 1941

"_I remember you  
__You're the one who made my dreams come true  
__A few kisses ago..."_

"Tony, Tony! Must you sing that song? What about all the old songs we used to sing, eh?"

"Sorry, Mamma. But all the kids sing this, you know?"

"I know..."

* * *

Newark, New Jersey, December 8, 1941

"...a day that will live in infamy."

"No, don't turn the radio off, Papà, I want to hear this. Papà, why do you look at me like that? Mamma, why are you crying?"

* * *

Fort Dix Reception Center, Fort Dix, New Jersey, February 28, 1942

"Well, Garlotti, you've passed your physical and completed your aptitude tests. Any idea which branch of the service you want, son?"

"Thank you, sir. Uh, sir...can I request the Air Corps?"

* * *

Biggs Field, Texas, May 12, 1942

"Hey, I'm Roy Goldman, from New Berlin, Wisconsin. Where you from, buddy?"

"Newark, New Jersey. Name's Tony Garlotti. Nice to meet you. What kind of job you looking for?"

"I'm looking to be a bombardier."

"Really? Thought everybody wanted to be a pilot."

"Nah. The pilot's just the chauffeur, see? The bombardier is the one who does the important job."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I just want to get into the air. Gunner, if I can qualify."

"Hey, good luck, Tony."

"You too, Roy."

* * *

Molesworth Air Base, Cambridgeshire, England, September 9, 1942

"Hey, Roy, we made it across the Atlantic okay. When do we get a B-17 of our own?"

"Soon, I hope. Can't stand this waiting around. What do you think we should name it, when we get our plane?"

"Dunno. Thought the pilot got to name the plane."

"Lieutenant Harris says everybody should pick out a name and then we can all vote on the one we like best."

"I wanna call it 'Lucky Lady'."

"Tony, that is too corny for words."

"Okay, fine. What do _you _want to name it?"

"Uh...I guess 'Lucky Lady' is okay by me."

* * *

Somewhere over Enthaven, Germany, January 30, 1943

"We're on fire! BAILOUT! BAILOUT! BAILOUT!"

"Tony, grab your chute!"

"I got it, Roy...you okay? Roy? ROY!"

* * *

Dulag Luft Interrogation Center, Oberursel, Germany, February 4, 1943

"You are with the 303rd Bomber Group. And you are from Newark, New Jersey. You see, we know everything about you. And we know you are a spy. Do you know what happens to spies? Now tell me what your target was."

"Garlotti, Anthony P., Sergeant, US Army Air Corps, 35593612..."

"Very well. Take him back to his cell, Schmidt."

* * *

Dulag Luft holding quarters, February 12, 1943

"Tony! My God, I thought I'd never see you again!"

"Roy...Roy..."

"Sit down for a minute, Tony, you look like hell. Rough time at the Dulag, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Not much better here, to tell you the truth. But at least you're not in solitary anymore. But Tony, I don't think we'll be here long."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"There's a rumor that we're being sent to a Stalag Luft. On account of us being airmen, I guess."

"Couldn't be worse than this."

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, February 23, 1943

"Welcome to Stalag 13, boys. Carter, why don't you show Garlotti around? Kinch, you do the same for Goldman."

"Right, Colonel. Goldman, come on with me."

"You got it, sir...I'm glad to meet you, Garlotti. I'm Sergeant Andrew J. Carter, but most guys just call me Carter. Hey, you look like you've had a rough time. We'll get you fixed up, though. Once you've seen the sights here, I'll take you to see Scotty. He's our medic, and he'll check you over."

"Okay...thanks. Uh...do you happen to have anything to eat?"

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, Barracks 2, February 24, 1943

"This place is a dump, isn't it, Roy?"

"You said it. Better than the Dulag, though."

"Oh, yeah. But there's something weird going on here."

"What do you mean, Tony? Other than the fact the guards aren't knocking the guys around, and there's actually something that looks like food in the mess hall."

"Well, it's so small! Only a few hundred guys here, looks like."

"Yeah, I think it was an afterthought of the Luftwaffe. One of the guys here says the camp's used mainly for labor to repair the roads around here."

"And the way we got grilled when we got here yesterday..."

"They're just looking for Kraut plants."

"I guess..."

"Listen, Tony. We'll take it a day at a time. We're better off here than we've been since we got shot down. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, Barracks 2, Colonel Hogan's office, March 1, 1943

"...and that's what we're trying to accomplish here, Garlotti. I want you to think carefully before you make your decision. Do you understand the risks involved?"

"Yes sir."

"If you don't feel that you are up to this, we can arrange for a transfer to another camp where you won't have this kind of responsibility. Where you can just be a regular POW. And where we can help you escape to England, if that's what you want."

"Colonel, I don't have to think about it. I want to help out here."

"Good man. Now, I'd like to get an idea of what kind of skills you have..."

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, May 3, 1943

"_I remember you  
__You're the one who made my dreams come true  
__A few kisses ago..._"

"Where'd you get that from, Tony?"

"Don't remember offhand. Everybody was singing it back in '41. Just always liked it, I guess."

"I kinda like it too, I guess."

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, October 22, 1943

"Colonel, I'm sorry I don't know a recipe for pizza. And it looks like nobody else in camp does either. So how are we gonna get through to this Bonacelli guy?"

"Garlotti, we're going to try to have London get hold of your father for that pizza recipe."

"You can do that, Colonel? Could you maybe..."

"Sorry, Garlotti. You know the rules. Our families only know that we are POWs. We can't let your father or anyone else know that we have communication with England. The only thing we can tell him is that you are still a POW and that you're in good health."

"Yes sir. Say, Colonel...what Carter said about Italians loving music...that's true, you know. It might be nice if we could sing something for Major Bonacelli."

"Yeah? So do _you_ know the words to 'Santa Lucia'?"

"No, but I'm thinking maybe London should ask my dad about that when they get the pizza recipe."

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, June 7, 1944

"Men, I'm happy to tell you that somehow the Krauts didn't take decisive action when our boys hit the beaches at Normandy, and the Allies were able to secure a beachhead."

"What do you think, Roy? Will it be over soon?"

"Dunno, Tony. All we know is the Allies have landed. Guess we just keep doing what we've been doing."

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, July 21, 1944

"Sorry, men. The briefcase bomb worked, but not well enough. Hitler's still with us, I'm afraid. So it's gonna be business as usual."

"What do you think, Tony?"

"Like the Colonel said. Guess we just keep doing what we've been doing."

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, September 20, 1944

"_I remember you  
__You're the one who made my dreams come true  
__A few kisses ago..._"

"Ah jeez, Tony, give it a rest, will ya!"

"Sorry, Roy."

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, December 18, 1944

"Men, I know it sounds bad. But let's give our boys some credit. They'll fight their way out of this and be in Germany before you know it. But don't count on being home for Christmas this year."

"Here, Roy. I've been saving this for a special occasion."

"Your last chocolate bar, Tony? For a time like this, when the Krauts launch a major offensive and catch our guys flat-footed?"

"Well, I figure times like this we need it the most, right?"

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, February 26, 1945

"Hey, Tony?"

"Yeah, Roy."

"Could you sing that song again?"

"Sure...

_I remember you  
__You're the one who made my dreams come true  
__A few kisses ago..."_

* * *

Stalag Luft 13, April 10, 1945

"What the hell! Roy! Roy, look! There's a Sherman tank at the gates!"

"Oh, my God! Tony, you're right. Hey, somebody get the Colonel!"

"Roy..."

"Yeah?"

"Are you _crying_?"

"Yeah..."

"Me too."

* * *

"I Remember You" (1941) music by Victor Schertzinger, lyrics by Johnny Mercer


End file.
